


Green Island

by Lirillith



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Gen, Nature, Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirillith/pseuds/Lirillith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New life comes to the hermitage, but some things call for patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Island

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this kinkmeme prompt](http://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/1082.html?thread=545594#cmt545594%22), somewhat revised from the original anon posting.

"It's so _green_ here," Rey says, wonderingly, the first morning; the first sunrise. "And the clouds! There's just so much color." 

"Just wait until it's really spring," Luke says. "I know patience is tough at your age—" Without looking, he can feel her tense, irritation scratching at the back of her mind. She's spent her whole life waiting. "Or maybe that was just me," he adds, smiling. He wonders how the smile looks to her, if it's grown rusty with disuse, but for his part, he's surprised that it still comes so naturally to him.

He shows her what there is to see: the bulbs beginning to sprout near one wall, the winter weeds growing where he plants vegetables in the spring. All the planets and years that separate him from Tatooine have made their mark; she exclaims over lichens and the grass underfoot, while he sees an island barely stirring out of winter. How old was he, before he'd stayed on one planet long enough to see the seasons cycle? It wasn't until well after the war had ended.

He points out the line of trees down the hill from their huts; leafless, they're gnarled and unlovely, the stubborn and weathered remains of an orchard. The largest growing things the cold and the wind will allow. "I thought trees had leaves," she says. 

"They will."

 

"So this is rain," she says, when the second day after her arrival dawns wet and drizzly.

It's more like mist; he wants to tell her about Dagobah, about the fug of moisture that hung in the air at all times, so you barely knew if it was rising or falling. "From a certain point of view," he says instead.

So for the next three such days, each a bit more damp than the day before, she asks, rather than assume. The fourth day, it really does rain, but she runs through it to his hut, determined not to let herself be fazed by the water falling from the sky. "Now it's rain," he tells her.

"I see the difference now," she says gravely.

Another youth coming out of the desert, learning firsthand about things only seen in holovids or mentioned in stories. It's a point of connection, and he tries to keep it at that, keep his own memories in the background. He doesn't want to let his own history drown out hers, turn her into the listener; he wants to catch whatever bits and pieces she lets fall. Sometimes he can see as much as feel the way she turns a thought over, inspecting it for weak spots before she speaks, but other times, she blurts out her opinions without a moment's hesitation, because she learned early on to assert herself. 

She has no complaints about the austere stone hut equipped with cot and basin — "it keeps the wind out," she notes approvingly — or about the lack of running water. She eats the simple meals he has to offer with appreciative relish, and never asks what's being served. When he teaches her to fish, she stares at the spiny, thrashing creature he reels up in astonishment. "I knew they existed, but I couldn't visualize it," she says. "Is that one of the things I've been eating?"

"Indeed it is. I was wondering if you'd ever ask." 

"I didn't see the point. If there's any food I'd turn down, I've yet to meet it," she says, and there's a playful sparkle in her eyes that could almost distract him from what that says about her past. "It is nice to know, though."

"I'll teach you more about the plants when it's warm enough for them to grow," he says. They're in the present, and for now it's enough to see the excitement in her eyes when she gets her first nibble, and hear her whoop of triumph when she finally lands a fish.

 

She's been training with him for three of the planet's lunar cycles — about two standard months — when he disarms her in a spar and pauses to catch his breath. She's doing well at unlearning her old habits in fights; soon he'll dust off the training drone and let her practice with a real saber. "C'mon," she protests, "In a real fight I could keep going after that!" 

"Look down at those trees, Rey," he says, in a transparent bid to distract her. If he'd taught her the trick to enhancing her vision, he'd ask her to count the leaves, to get her to take a good look, but right now there are none; just the delicate lacework of buds and blossoms forming around the stark limbs. But it's visible from here.

He watches her eyes widen, then squint, then she turns to him. The beginnings of a smile play around her mouth. "There's _pink_ on the branches," she says, in much the same tones as she'd asked him "So is _this_ rain?" 

"Remember what I said about spring?" He can't help smiling, and her own smile breaks through the clouds in response. "Go take a closer look."

She doesn't hesitate, just turns and bounds down the slope with all the energy of a child half her age. 

He follows, much more slowly. It'd be nice if the energy were as infectious as her smile.


End file.
